The Red Mill
by puns and roses
Summary: This is a story about freedom, a story about beauty, a story about truth but most important of all it's a story about love or Moulin Rouge but with the characters from Victorious


**Disclaimer: No I do not own Victorious, and neither do I own Moulin Rouge which is what this plot is based on. What I do own, unfortunately, is the mass of fangirl feelings that led to this story. Enjoy!**

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He was an actor.

Somewhere in his mind, he amended that 'was' to an 'is', he could still act, could still capture an audience with the slightest tilt of his head and curve of his lips. He could read any line off of a script and have the masses believe every word; he could bring them to tears, make them laugh, and even scare them. His friends called him brilliant and talented, Sikowitz had even said he embodied everything the bohemian revolution stood for but now he felt like a shadow of his former self.

It had already been a month since the play and yet it only felt like days to him. Everywhere he turned he saw hints of her in the small, dingy apartment, he could smell her on the sheets of his bed and every now and then he'd find bits of her costumes under a pillow or behind the couch. At night he could hear her heels tapping against the cold floor and there were moments when he'd catch himself making a sarcastic remark that he was positive she would have made. His friends took turns coming in day after day, bringing him scripts and persuading him to get his ass off the floor and unto a stage. He always shook his head and shoved them away and they would always stare at him with concern and pity in their eyes. The truth was, he couldn't bring himself to act on the same stage where _she_ had-.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and clenched his eyes shut, as if he could force the memories to go away. He had always been so calm, so detached from too much emotion because over-emotion was for the stage and not for real life but now he just felt so _buried_ underneath all the memories. Every day he felt it suffocate him a little more and the temptation to just end it all was so unbelievably tempting but he couldn't do it. He made a promise.

The door creaked open; craning to look over his shoulder he managed a small smile as he watched his best friend enter the room.

"Hey man, how're you doin?"

With smooth, dark skin and chin length dreadlocks that framed his face, his friend André was very good looking, and perhaps the best musician he's ever met. As André plopped down on the bed beside him, he mumbled a reply that was something along the lines of 'fine'. They sat there in silence for a while, his friend, drumming his fingers on the side table while he continued to stare at nothing. It was always like this. Without warning, André slammed several stacks of papers unto his lap with a loud _clap, _making him wince, the sharp pain on his thigh distracting him momentarily.

"_Ouch_! What the hell was that for man?" Shooting his friend a glare, he absentmindedly rubbed at the spot where the numerous scripts had hit him, feeling the skin grow warm beneath his fingertips.

"You can't keep going on like this man, it's been a month! At least get up and get some fresh air outside!" André gripped his shoulder tightly, giving him a brief shake. More than anyone else, he could tell that he had worried André the most, he had been there for him the entire time, had been the one who helped him get his big break, had been the first one to introduce him to _her,_ and had been the first one beside him when she-.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, even though the pain in his chest probably wouldn't be going away any time soon, deep down he knew that his friend was right. If she was still around she probably would've kicked his ass for staying holed up in the room like that. "I'm sorry André, and you're right it's just that I can't go out there without being reminded of _her."_ Even after a month he still couldn't bring himself to say her name, every time he tried he only felt worse.

"I hear you man," was the reply, "but she wouldn't want this! At some point you have to try to move on, we all do. You think it's any easier for Cat? Or Sikowitz? I mean, he didn't show it but she was his favorite! We all miss you at the theater, you should come back, it'll feel better to be around other people, y'know?"

He managed an absentminded nod, yeah, why shouldn't he come back? Glancing outside the balcony for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the mill and remembered why, because the moment he stepped inside that theater all he would see would be her, her, her, _her; _every corner of the building that he knew so well would be part of a memory that they shared, right until the last one. He couldn't let André know what he was thinking though. "You're right! I-I should go back."

The grin that spread across his friend's features was unmistakable, receiving a firm clap on the shoulder from André he watched as his friend stood up and strode across the room toward the door. "I'll see you at the theater alright man?" He managed a firm nod and the ghost of a smile as the door shut behind his friend. The moment André had gone he began feeling the glooming depression descend on him again. No dammit! He couldn't keep doing this to himself! Running a hand through his own hair, he gingerly picked up one of the scripts and looked it over, he hadn't gone past the first page when he closed it and flung it across the room.

A stiff breeze wafted in from the balcony, ruffling the papers on his lap and blowing his hair across his face. Closing his eyes, he could smell her again, all around the room, or maybe he was just imagining it? There it was though, lavender and peppermint, almost as if she was there again strutting around the room with her sarcastic wit and dark humor.

It took him back.

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**So just to clear things up, what you just read is PRESENT TIME, the succeeding chapters will all be set in the past since Beck is ~*~ REMINISCING~*~ **

**yeahp. and again, I OWN NOTHING.  
**


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